


Displaced

by Coriaria



Series: Displaced [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A tiny bit of smut, AU - Medical, AU - refugee camp, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Doctor Sirius Black, M/M, Photojournalist Remus Lupin, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:00:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21650437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coriaria/pseuds/Coriaria
Summary: Sirius doesn't like the press. He hates the way they swan into the hospital when something big happens, film themselves in front of suffering people then bugger off again leaving Sirius to deal with the reality of human suffering. So when a photojournalist arrives in the camp two days before Christmas, he's not happy.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Series: Displaced [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1963927
Comments: 5
Kudos: 145
Collections: RS Small Gifts 2019





	Displaced

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: This fic discusses the kind of situations which might be faced by a doctor working for Médecins san Frontieres.
> 
> Thanks so much to my beta, Williamsnickers and thanks to shaggdogstail for the original prompt, which I loved (Remus is a photojournalist, Sirius is a doctor for Médecins Sans Frontières. They're both alone and far from home at Christmas). Also, all recognisable characters are the property of JKR etc etc.

The man arrived some time after seven on Christmas Eve, when Sirius had slipped out the back of the tent to have a quiet smoke. He was obviously exhausted, stumbling slightly as he walked, his clothing, skin and even his beard covered with dust, which made everything about him look monochrome in shades of brown. In his arms was a child – a girl, Sirius assumed from her long hair – wrapped in an equally dust-covered blanket. It was hard to judge her age, but she was small, maybe four or five years old.

Sirius tried speaking in English first. He knew he should probably try the barely-adequate Arabic he’d acquired in Yemen, or his few words of Kurdish, but he still felt self-conscious sometimes and slipped back into old habits. And English worked more often than he would have expected.

When the man stared uncomprehendingly at him, Sirius tried Arabic. The man continued to stare, standing at the entrance to the tent; apparently afraid to enter, but too desperate to leave. Sirius tried a few northern Kurdish phrases.

“ _Rojbash. Navé mi Sirius e._ ”

When that got no response, he tried again.

“ _Tu têdigihijî_?”

The man stepped back slightly and Sirius tried the phrase again – _do you understand_? Sirius wasn’t sure whether it was his words or tone, but the man stepped away again and looked like he might run.

“No, no, no,” he said, starting to feel out of his depth.

He wasn’t as confident here. He’d only been at the camp for a month and it was quite different from Yemen, where he’d been based at a real hospital, albeit one desperately short on supplies and subject to frequent shelling. He should have been fine – it wasn’t a war zone or anything particularly awful – just a slow, sad stream of refugees with nowhere to go, unwanted and forgotten by the world.

The man turned away from him and Sirius grabbed his arm, desperate to stop him from leaving. There was something terribly wrong with the girl – she was limp in the man’s arms and the pair had a smell about them that spoke of more than just a lack of anywhere to wash. Sirius wondered if the girl was dead already. He’d never seen it himself, but other doctors had shared stories about parents walking miles with children who had died in their arms.

The man turned back and began to yell at Sirius, incomprehensible words, his voice panicked. Sirius tried to calm him, but his attempts seemed to have the opposite effect. The man tried to tug his arm away, Sirius held on, then they were both shouting and between them was the child, silent and unresponsive.

Sirius saw the journalist out of the corner of his eye a moment before he put a hand on Sirius’s shoulder. He’d arrived at the camp the day before and had been talking to the refugees and taking pictures.

Sirius didn’t like journalists. He hated the way they’d swan into the hospital when something notable happened – a larger than usual number of people killed, or someone from a wealthier country caught in the crossfire, perhaps – filming people as they lay in hospital beds or on stretchers in the corridor, filming themselves talking about how hellish everything was, then buggering off again to leave people like Sirius doing the real work of dealing with the human tragedy, day after day.

“Will you get the FUCK out of my face,” Sirius yelled at him. “There’s a child dying here and the last thing that’s fucking needed is another fucking parasite with his fucking camera.”

The journalist didn’t flinch. He was eye to eye with Sirius, just a fraction taller, and giving him a hard stare. He evidently had no intention of backing down. Sirius drew a breath, quite ready to begin shouting again if he didn’t leave, but the man spoke first, in a soft voice.

“Take a moment, mate. Grab a bottle of water, take a few deep breaths, something like that. You’re only making things worse.”

Sirius found himself almost too shocked to respond. The man’s tone was gentle, but there was something in the way he stood, a calm confidence that he was right and Sirius was the one with a problem. In another setting, Sirius would have been fascinated by him.

Before Sirius could say anything, the journalist had taken Sirius’s silence for agreement. He placed one hand on Sirius’s wrist and the other hand on the other man’s shoulder, speaking to him in a language Sirius didn’t recognise.

The man relaxed immediately, and Sirius let go. He turned sharply and walked inside the tent, feeling angry at nobody but himself. At moments like this, he felt very much like a messed up rich kid pretending to be a humanitarian. Which he was, he supposed.

After a few moments, the journalist walked into the tent, the man with the girl in his arms following.

“His daughter is injured,” the journalist said. “Her brother stepped on a landmine. She was right beside him. He’s walked three days to bring her here.”

Sirius didn’t ask what had happened to the brother. He’d seen enough landmine injuries.

“Will he let me look at her?”

Sirius gestured to a screened-off part of the tent. The journalist spoke to the man, who nodded and followed Sirius willingly.

As soon as he saw the little girl’s injuries, Sirius knew one of her legs couldn’t be saved. Even if it had been treated immediately, it would have been difficult. After three days of festering, all he could do was amputate the leg and stop the infection from spreading. The other leg was questionable. He’d saved worse in Yemen, but with better facilities.

“I’ll need to get my colleagues. We have to operate immediately. Will you stay with him? Make sure he doesn’t leave?”

The journalist nodded.

“He won’t leave.”

…

The surgery took hours. When they were done, Sirius was buzzing with adrenaline. He could barely feel his exhaustion. It had been difficult, but they’d saved her less damaged leg. It would make a huge difference to the girl. With one leg, she could get around with a crutch, even if she had no chance of getting a prosthesis. With no legs, she’d be effectively immobilised.

On the other hand, he wasn’t sure how the girl’s father would take the news. Would he be happy he’d saved one leg, or upset that he hadn’t saved the other?

The journalist was still there, sitting beside the man. He looked tired, and Sirius felt a stab of guilt for calling him a parasite. He could dismiss the journalist’s earlier assistance as showing off that he knew more about the region than Sirius, but there was no reason for him to sit and wait with the girl’s father until after midnight, except basic decency.

Sirius noticed, too, as he began to explain about the surgery, that the journalist was far less fluent in the language he was using to speak with the man than Sirius had first thought. He mostly used short phrases and gestures, sometimes taking two or three attempts before he was understood. But his voice never showing any trace of frustration.

When Sirius had finished speaking, the man leaped to his feet and hugged him.

“Thank you, doctor, thank you, thank you,” he said, the words heavily accented, but still comprehensible.

“He’s not upset we amputated one leg?” Sirius asked the journalist when the man finally released him.

“He’s familiar with landmine injuries,” the journalist replied, shaking his head. “He’s grateful she’s alive and that she still has the other leg.”

Sirius took the man through to his daughter and left him there with one of the local nurses, who also seemed to be able to communicate with him. When he returned, he saw the journalist slipping quietly out of the tent.

Sirius couldn’t just let him leave, not without giving him his apologies and thanks. He’d been arrogant and rude to the journalist, and the journalist had been nothing but kind and helpful in return. Besides, he met very few British people and it was just nice to hear a familiar voice sometimes.

“Hey,” he said, grabbing a bottle of water from a pallet that was stacked near the tent wall.

The journalist turned and Sirius tossed him the water bottle.

“Merry Christmas,” Sirius said.

The man caught the water bottle, frowning. He looked at his watch and then raised his head.

“Well, fuck me, so it is.”

“Was that an invitation?” Sirius said back, with a quick raise of his eyebrows and a smile playing across his lips. Then, just as quickly, he realised his mistake and slapped his hand over his mouth.

He’d been warned, repeatedly, that his habit of flirting with men he barely knew, whether or not he was really interested and whether or not there was any sign they were gay, was something he’d need to control in the Middle East. It had got him into enough trouble in London. He could find himself in much worse trouble in a region where a number of countries imposed the death penalty for sexual relationships between men.

The journalist was silent, wearing the same frown of confusion he had when Sirius wished him Merry Christmas.

“I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry,” Sirius said. “That was completely inappropriate of me. I… I just wanted… I meant to thank you for helping. And to apologise for being... well… You were… That was…”

Now the journalist was just looking at him, a faint quirk of a smile in the corner of his mouth and a glint of amusement in his eyes. Sirius found himself blushing under the man’s gaze, as he realised just how attractive the man looked with that expression on his face.

“You’re welcome,” the journalist said, watching Sirius squirm for a few more moments, before giving a nod and offering his hand. “The man’s a Syrian and I speak a little, so it’s no problem.”

“Syrian? I’m not sure, I… most of the people here are from Syria, I can communicate with them usually. I’m not sure I follow.”

“Not Syrian. _Assyrian_. There aren’t many of them left here now. They speak a different group of languages. He’s got a bit of the local dialect, but, you know, under stress he probably couldn’t remember anything.”

“But he knew how to say _thank you, doctor_ in English?”

“He asked me how to say it while his daughter was in surgery. He felt bad that he’d got upset with you.”

Sirius felt the post-surgery high leaving him and suddenly felt the exhaustion running right through to his toes and fingertips.

“That was my fault. I couldn’t make him understand and I panicked. I’ve only been here a month. Was in Yemen for a couple of years before that and was getting by in Arabic, but I’m not much of a linguist. You were… you were great. Thank you.”

The journalist gave a dismissive shrug and began to turn away, as if he was about to leave.

“I don’t even know your name, sorry. Christ, I’m hopeless tonight. I’m Sirius Black.”

The journalist paused and gave a slight smile.

“Really?”

Sirius shifted on his feet. It was one of the things he’d enjoyed being away from London. Most of the people he met had no idea about Western names and simply accepted his as normal. Not one of the locals he’d met had made a pun of it.

“I’m Remus Lupin,” the journalist continued, with the slightest roll of his eyes.

“Oh… I see.”

Sirius grinned at him and Remus Lupin, clearly not in a position to mock an unusual name, finally broke into a smile that lit up his face. The moment of shared understanding seemed to relax things between them, and Sirius found himself speaking before his brain could tell him this was a stupid idea.

“Look… um… if you wanted a drink, I’ve got a bottle of whisky back in my tent. My friend sent it to me for Christmas. It’s a single malt Scotch and it’s a shame to just drink it alone.”

Sirius paused for a moment, wondering whether he would regret his words, but Remus nodded.

“Yeah, could do with a drink.”

…

“So how long have you been here?” Sirius asked, pouring Remus his third whisky from the bottle James had managed to sneak to Sirius.

They’d been exchanging stories, Sirius mostly talking about the hospital in Yemen, where he’d worked until it had been completely destroyed by airstrikes. He never thought he’d come to Iraq for a bit of respite.

Remus had been a little guarded at first, but after his second whisky, his stories started to get funnier. It was only when he began relaying stories of incompetence in the Coalition Provisional Authority, following the US-led invasion, that Sirius started to wonder just how long he’d been around.

“Here? I got into the camp yesterday. No, the day before.”

“I meant… here.”

Sirius waved the hand which held his glass to indicate a wider concept of ‘here’.

“I’ve come and gone. Been in the Middle East now about sixteen, no, seventeen years.”

“Seventeen… shit. You live somewhere here then, or do you go home?”

“Home is… wherever, I suppose. I work freelance, go where it suits me.”

Sirius couldn’t imagine not having a place to call home. Even though his was borrowed, the decaying mansion owned by his best friends’ parents, even though, in fact, everything and everyone he thought of as family was borrowed, even though he’d spent the last two years in war zones and had set foot in Britain only once in that time, he knew he always had a place to go. He couldn’t imagine living the way Remus did.

“No family?” he asked. “No wife and kids? No parents?”

Remus gave a shake of his head and swallowed a couple more mouthfuls of whisky.

“My Mum’s back in Swansea. But I haven’t seen her in six years. Don’t get on so well with my stepfather.”

His expression grew dark and Sirius went silent, giving him space to say more if Remus wanted to.

“He never liked me. Thought I was too soft, reading books when I should have been out doing manly things like playing sports and picking on smaller kids. Always trying to toughen me up.”

“Being a journalist in a war zone’s not tough enough for him then?” Sirius asked, trying to keep his tone light. He was pretty sure he caught the meaning behind Remus’s words, both in his comment about his stepfather considering Remus _soft_ and what he meant by his stepfather trying to toughen him up.

Remus glanced up and then down again. He seemed to realise he’d said more than intended, looking down at his glass accusingly.

“Sorry, don’t drink very often. Rambling on like that… sorry. I should go.”

“Don’t,” Sirius said, reaching across and putting a hand on his knee, then looking up earnestly. “I… my parents kicked me out when I was sixteen… they realised I wasn’t going to be marrying some well-bred girl who could pop out some equally well-bred grandchildren and carry on the family line. Went to live with a friend. His family is all the family I have now. So… yeah.”

Remus lifted his eyes. For a moment, his expression was unguarded and vulnerable, then Sirius saw something else that he couldn’t quite read. He realised that he was leaning in close and that Remus wasn’t backing away. Sirius felt himself draw even closer.

“I may… I may be completely misreading things here… “ he whispered, their faces now only inches apart. Then he leaned forward and brushed Remus’s lips with his before backing away.

“Not misreading… no…” Remus murmured back, and then their mouths were pressed together and they were grabbing at each other and tearing at zips and buttons in desperation.

In a few seconds they were skin to skin and it was overwhelming because, _oh God, Remus_ , it had just been so, so long since he’d felt another man’s cock and, _oh, fuck, oh, oh yes_ , it was just glorious. 

They were panting and grabbing and rubbing and thrusting _oh, God, oh God, yes, yes, Remus, yes_ and then Sirius was coming and then Remus shuddered, and he was coming too, and then they were flopped on Sirius’s narrow, uncomfortable bed, sweaty and sticky and slightly dazed.

“Hey,” Sirius said, looking up at Remus through half closed eyes, carding his fingers through the hair at the back of his neck.

Remus’s face shut down and he pushed himself up until he was seated on the edge of the bed. He looked around and picked up his faded boxer shorts, beginning to put them on.

“Don’t go,” Sirius said. “It’s Christmas. Nobody should be alone at Christmas.”

“Millions of people are alone at Christmas. Most of them don’t care.”

“I care,” Sirius said, reaching out one hand and placing it on Remus’s thigh and rubbing up and down gently. “And you don’t have to be alone right now.”

Remus sighed and his shoulders slumped.

“Yeah, alright.”

He lay himself back down and Sirius threw the blanket over them both, then shuffled up so that his chest was against Remus’s back.

“Years since anyone spooned me,” Remus said as Sirius slipped an arm around his waist.

“Mmmm,” Sirius replied. He just felt so right with Remus’s body against his.

“So… Merry Christmas, I suppose,” Remus said.

“Yeah,” Sirius replied, mumbling into the back of Remus’s neck. “Merry fucking Christmas.”


End file.
